Sing, sing a song.

Note: The following post is based upon my personal experience. I considered filing this away in a personal journal as I don’t want to disrespect anyone mentioned.  However, I choose to share this experience with the goal of illustrating a greater point.

There’s this thing that a local church does every year which I was eagerly looking forward to. It’s a celebration of God through a 2-hour concert of worship songs and is held in Fort Collins City Park. It’s been going on for well over ten years and is a rather popular event, with between 3,000 and 4,000 people attending this year. So, in light of my recent involvement with my (awesome) church choir, I decided that this would be another great thing to do. Or so it initially seemed.

The story does have a happy ending however, so stick with me.

 

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Chapter One: It begins.

The choir was set to practice for two hours, once a week for four weeks. The concert is sponsored by another great church in our area, so of course there were many from their congregation who were part of this choir. A handful of other people from my church and a smattering of those from other local churches made up the difference.

The first sign that I might be heading for some personal struggle became apparent when I was handed the song program list. I realized that I knew only two of the twenty four songs—all the rest were completely foreign.  I thought to myself, “Okay, this is different…not what I was thinking it was going to be, but I am certainly up for the challenge.” But when we began to sing these songs, I noticed that I didn’t really like them all that much. They were in a style that didn’t appeal to or resonate with me. But I thought I would carry on and see where this was going. After all, first impressions aren’t always correct impressions.

I also felt a bit out of sorts as the majority of the choir (all that attend the other church) seemed to not only know all of the songs, but also their respective harmonies—and they weren’t using their sheet music. We also started and stopped a lot, tweaking harmonies and starting over multiple times, so I wasn’t able to get a sense of how the finished song was to sound. It was a bit daunting. I felt as though I was the transfer student who came in mid-semester and had a lot of catching up to do.

After trying my best to sing four foreign songs, we were introduced to a really nice gent who was to teach us a very fast tempo song called “Victoria.” Cool—this sounded like it would be fun.

“Wait!” I said, “I don’t recognize any of these words. I think they’re all in Spanish. I don’t speak Spanish. And these are a lot of words.”

Charlotte, one of my good friends who also chose to take this journey, commiserated with me in our wariness of song choices and the situation at hand.

We muddled our way through as best we could, trying not only to learn the melody, but also the harmonies and moreover the words (and their pronunciations). It didn’t help my confidence in knowing that it was going to be performed at twice the tempo at which we were learning it. But I thought, “Well, this is foreign (in many ways) but I think I will be able to learn this. At least the song will be on the practice CD I bought, so I can do it!”

Nope.

The song wasn’t on the CD. In fact, none of the songs were there. Well, no complete song that is. There were only thirty-second snippets of the songs on the disc.  Panic started to grow.  I was disheartened but not disillusioned.

 

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Chapter Two: What’s going on?

The next week rolled around and, not having an opportunity to further listen to my little snippets or practice the songs, I was hesitant to go again to practice. Charlotte was not going to be there and I didn’t want to stand alone, not knowing what I was doing. Also, I had already had one of “those” days and was a bit down in the mouth over things. I made up my mind—I wasn’t going to go…Not then, and probably not again.

I got home from work feeling really crummy about everything. And then I began to feel even crummier at my attitude toward this. I was not going to let myself be defeated by discomfort. So I jumped in the car and raced to the church to be at practice on time.

Again, we went through even more songs that I didn’t know and, while I still didn’t care for many of them, there were actually a few that I didn’t mind. I decided to put my own preferences aside and enjoy them as best I could. At least we had another opportunity to practice that Spanish song.

“What? What do you mean he isn’t here to teach us again? Who’s going to teach us? Seriously! I only know how to say ‘Please’ and ask for water.”

We didn’t practice the song. I started to freak out a bit. I was already having a hard time learning the others; how was I going to do this one? Thankfully, they made copies of the full song (thank you, Jesus) and handed out CDs. This wasn’t going to be so bad.

Then we started in on the next song—one I still didn’t recognize.

“What page are we on?” I asked the guy sitting next to me.

“This one isn’t in the book,” he said.

“Uh…do we have sheet music then?”

“Nope.  But we sing this all the time, so…”

I just sat there dumbfounded, watching all the other people passionately sing in their respective parts (again not using their books). Even worse, they also had some hand-clapping choreography and some unanimously timed shouting thing that made way into the performance. I felt so intimidated and so unsure if I was going to be able to do this. We had only practiced eight songs in two weeks (not revisiting the previous week’s songs). We had sixteen more to learn in the remaining two weeks. I left that night feeling a bit befuddled and deflated.

Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this.

Maybe I was meant to just be in the audience.

I wished Charlotte was there.

 

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Chapter Three: I Want To Cry.

Week three, and I entered practice feeling a bit more positive—I wasn’t going to let the last two weeks’ bumps get the best of me. Sure, I hadn’t managed to learn any of the songs to the point of singing them with confidence, but there was time. And I was certain that we’d blow through a ton of the remaining ones this night—after all, we had a live band whom I was sure was going to keep the practice on track.

Not so.

While they are incredibly talented and amazingly tight, the band spent the first 45 minutes trying to figure out their arrangements while the choir patiently, yet confusingly sat by. When we did start singing together, it was another start-stop-start-go back-wait-stop situation. Nobody was leading us. Nobody seemed to know what was going on—especially me. At least I had Charlotte back with me, but she was just as clueless and growing increasingly frustrated as I was.

Things just got bumpier as we felt our confidence slipping away and our enthusiasm fading. There was no organization apparent to us. We sang that crazy song again—the one with the choreography that wasn’t in the book—and Charlotte’s face was painted with terror.

“This isn’t in the book!”

“I know,” I said. “What are we going to do?”

We asked our choir director if she had the lyrics or sheet music in her binder that we could get a copy of.

“I don’t know what this song is,” she said. “It’s not in the book—I didn’t know we were singing this.”

It felt like we were in the middle of a storm, blowing around haphazardly. We stumbled through a few more songs, a few of which I actually knew, but I was confident that I had no real confidence. Perhaps this wasn’t the thing for me. Perhaps this was too far out of my league.

Charlotte concurred. We both left feeling like we weren’t coming back for the last rehearsal. And “Victoria” was again M.I.A.

 

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Chapter Four: Just do it.

The following week was hard. I wrestled with a lot of emotion in deciding what I should do. I felt like I really wanted to be a part of this event as I knew it would be a powerful experience for me and for everyone attending. But I also felt so overwhelmed by the fact that I wasn’t sure as to whether or not I would be able to get it all together in time.

Previously, Charlotte had noticed that our song book had photos from the previous year and that none of the people singing in those photos had their books on stage. More pressure. Not only was I concerned that I was going to look stupid and uncomfortable (pride), but also that I wasn’t going to be able to give it my all (doubt) while up there trying to remember the words (fear).

I did a lot of soul searching, contemplating the value of my contribution and praying to God for His guidance. He was quiet all week.

So I sent out a message to all of my fellow choir buddies who were also participating, letting them know of my reservations and that I was considering dropping out. They let me know just how confused and uncertain they were as well, but said that they were there to help add to the energy on stage. Their joy would hopefully be felt by the audience and create an even greater atmosphere of praise. They prodded me, trying to encourage me into sticking with it.

I considered their point and reluctantly decided to give the final practice one more go. If I didn’t like it, I was out. I really was hoping that I would like it.

I didn’t.

 

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Chapter Five: One more try.

This wasn’t looking good. Practice started 35 minutes late. The band was still arranging songs (some again from the week prior). People were still confused and moving directionless.  Another new song was introduced. I had a horrible headache.

One bright note—”Victoria” finally made its return! And, unbeknown to us, we were no longer singing the song. Instead, we only had to shout, “Hey! Hey! Victoria!” I was fine with that!

After growing frustrated with the lack of direction or communication with the choir, Charlotte and I agreed that there was a 95% chance we were going to attend, but only as members of the audience.  This just wasn’t for us. Another 4% was added to that after asking the choir director if we would be receiving a list of the song order, or the final song set, or a place where we could listen to the them in their entirety before Sunday’s event (3 days away).

“Well…I don’t think so. No.”

“Wha? We haven’t even performed the entire set. We are singing a song we don’t even have words to. Are those going to be made available?”

“Not really.”

That was it. We were out.

I looked wide-eyed at Charlotte.“Not really?” I said. “How many years have they been doing this, and it’s this chaotic?”

I don’t know the circumstances surrounding the behind-the-scenes that led to our feelings of frustration. I certainly do not want to judge or place blame in any way. I just felt that given the fact that this event was well past its tenth year, things should run more smoothly—especially when hosting other church members.  We felt swallowed up and out of the loop.

I went home feeling really lost. Here was something that I was really enthusiastic about—I wanted to put my heart into singing in this choir—and nothing was turning out the way it was supposed to. I really wanted to give God praise through song, but I didn’t feel like I could “be there” and give it my all.

I was convinced that this wasn’t for me.

 

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Chapter Six: Just show up.

I came home that night, almost in tears, and poured myself out to Amanda (who was gracious enough to genuinely hear me and sympathize with my struggle). I decided that I wasn’t going to do this. If I went through with it, I was going to look like a fool standing there saying, “Watermelon, watermelon, rhubarb, watermelon,” trying to make it look as though I singing something close to the correct lyrics. I went to bed frustrated and angry.

While in bed, I prayed to God that He would be understanding at my decision and that He forgive my attitude.  I had tried my best to be positive, but just couldn’t live up to the task. I drifted off to sleep, hoping that my dreams would be choir-free.

Then, things got weird. I woke up in the middle of the night to go wee and as I shuffled groggy-eyed to the bathroom, I had one of the choir songs stuck in my head. Though I had heard it only once, for whatever reason I was able to remember the lyrics—not the harmony, but at least the lyrics.  I was annoyed that I awoke with it buzzing in my brain and plopped back into bed, hoping it would go away.

The next day was spent in conversation with God as to what I should do. I still felt badly about wanting to drop out and for not having the desire to continue. I kept saying, “Sorry, God. I just don’t feel comfortable doing this.” All that day, still convinced that I was making a prudent decision, I went forward with resolve. However, guilt seemed to go forward with me.

Saturday was spent similarly. I woke up feeling stoic and set in not doing this. I was going to go to the concert as a member of the audience and give my praise that way. I didn’t need to be on stage to do it. That was good enough for me.

Then, God spoke to me. Not audibly, mind you, but He spoke. He told me that praise isn’t just about singing a song or raising your hands. True praise is accompanied by sacrifice. We no longer have to offer up burnt offerings to please God as was done in days of old. We have been freed from those laws by Jesus. But God still does love sacrifice.

Jesus said, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me.” [Luke 9:23].

I felt as though God was saying, “Listen, Timmy, it’s not about you. It’s about Me. I know you are uncomfortable singing to Me not knowing the songs, but it’s not about that. I want your praise. I want your adoration. Let go of your own fears and justifications as to why you can’t do this and be justified by your sacrifice to Me. I’ll take care of things. Just show up.”

Wow.

I felt the gravity of that. I was so wrapped up in my own little world that I made it more about me than about the One to whom this entire event was devoted. My friends were right—I needed to be there to add my voice to the texture of praise and help inspire and uplift those in the audience as a call to worship.

 

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Chapter Seven: God shows up.

I frantically tried to find full copies of the songs online—even those I didn’t know and which were not in the song book. I found most all of them and shared the links with my fellow choir mates. I spent the rest of the evening and the entire day leading up to the event listening almost non-stop. And I decided that I didn’t care if I was the only one on stage with a songbook. I was going to do my best and give it my all.

When the time came to fill the risers and start the set, I was taken aback by the fact that I wasn’t the only one with my song book. Everyone had a book—even those who didn’t have them all throughout the previous practices.

Despite all the perceived bumps in the road leading up to this moment, and in spite of my frustration and disillusionment, I felt a sense of peace, calm and joy that had been missing all that time. When I let it go and focused on the reason why I was really there—giving a sacrifice of my own comfort and will—I got it. I understood. And I felt the joy and peace that God promises to those who love Him.

I don’t think I would have appreciated that, or even understood it in quite the way that I do now had I not traveled through the desert to be in this moment. While I am not necessarily proud of my emotions or reactions, I am grateful that God has given me the gift of clear hindsight to better appreciate Him. Things could have gone much more smoothly—practices could have been more organized and songs could have been more to my liking—but had I not been in choppy waters, I wouldn’t have been able to see God calm the storm. Nor would I have been able to step outside the boat in faith that all would be well and walk adoringly toward Him without sinking.

I loved the concert so much. I even loved the songs at which I had previously secretly rolled my eyes. And while I got most of the words right, and there were moments where I had to sing with my head pointed toward my song book, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t about me. It was about God. Yet, through the journey, He still generously and undeservedly gave to me in ways that I didn’t expect.

Looking out into the crowd, I could feel their passion and love and abandon. I pictured God standing out in the crowd, disguised as some unsuspecting person, being honored by the love and adoration being offered to Him. I was so thankful in that moment for the opportunity to be there and for the encouragement He sent through my friends and through His word that put me there.

God loves praise. He also loves sacrifice, because it’s a display of your true love, appreciation and respect for His undefinable and inexhaustible goodness. My small sacrifice of my pride and comfort is nowhere near the awesome sacrifice that Jesus made when giving Himself to draw me closer and atone of my sinful ways. Of that I will sing praises—with or without a song book—forevermore.